Page 32 of The Duet

“Let me know if you need anything else.” Logan gets up and fixes his gaze on me. “Seriously, though, Lana. Thank you.”

“Thank you for everything you do for me.” I shoot him a wink.

“It’s my absolute pleasure. You know that.” I watch him saunter off. Logan is such a ray of sunshine, I should pay him just for bringing that to my life. Who else was crazy about Isabel Adler again? One of The Other Women’s mother. Another reminder of how much older I am than Cleo. Speaking of, a message from her is waiting to be heard.

I put in my earbuds and glance around. Everyone’s going about their business. Billie’s back on our bus and deep in conversation with Andy. Sam and Deb are working on a bass line. Most other passengers are reading or dozing. The coast is clear for me to listen to what Cleo has to say. My heart does that crazy pitter-patter again as I navigate to the message.

* * *

Hey, Lana. It’s Cleo. I forgot to tell you something before you kicked me out at the crack of dawn. Or maybe it was too hard for me to say to your face. I don’t know, but, um, I think you are so amazing. Last night was sooo amazing. Literally, like all my wildest, craziest dreams coming true. I know you want to keep this quiet and I will respect that. Of course, I will, but I would really, really, really love to see you tonight. Okay. See you later. Bye.

* * *

The message ends with the sound of an air kiss. Could Cleo be any cuter? Of course I want to see her tonight, but I don’t want to raise too much suspicion. I’m not ready to tell my bandmates what happened. I don’t feel like dealing with any of what that might bring about—like Billie and Jess being jealous.

I text her back that I got her message and that I look forward to seeing her at the next rest stop. I’m of half a mind to switch buses, but now’s not a good time to upset the natural order of things, if such a thing even exists on a tour. But of course it does. Otherwise, none of it would work. So much can be arranged, controlled even, except the humans. For such a young band, The Other Women have been a dream to tour with so far, although I might be biased. Aside from the odd unrequited crush, there have been no tantrums or raucous behavior. If you discount last night. Although I wouldn’t call what Cleo and I did raucous. It was passionate and delicious and definitely more-ish.

It was almost a logical consequence of what we go through on stage together, although that logic doesn’t hold up to too much scrutiny. I’m on stage with Billie, Sam, and Deb for many more hours and I’m not sleeping with any of them—although I did sleep with Joan for a very long time.

The bus pulls up to a rest stop and I can’t wait to get off. I can’t wait to see Cleo. I may be old enough to be her mother, but I feel as young and reckless as the members of our support band.

Back in the day, Joan and I usually stayed on the bus whenever it stopped. The two of us walking into a service station together caused too much upheaval for us to want to deal with. We’d briefly stretch our legs and get some air in a secluded spot, away from anyone who might recognize us. Because the one thing I’ve learned from a career in music spanning decades is that fame does funny things to people—to the famous ones and the ones who adore them alike.

If you get told, over and over, how your voice unleashes some long-buried emotion in someone, or how one of your songs conveys a particular sentiment that can’t be expressed any other way, there’s a real danger of that going to your head. Especially if you’re the face—and the voice—of the band.

That’s why The Other Women are even more impressive, apart from their relatively good behavior. Despite their success, they don’t act as though they are the second coming of rock music. They must get smoke blown up their asses all the time—I know how it goes—yet they’re much more down-to-earth than I ever was at their age. Maybe it’s because they don’t have as much to fight for any longer. Bands of their composition are automatically accepted these days. They are the norm, whereas The Lady Kings operated outside what was considered normal for the first decade and a half of our journey. We always acted as though we had something to prove for the simple reason that we did.

These days, it’s impossible for me to stay on the bus, if only to catch a glimpse of Cleo. Huge—some might call them obnoxious—sunglasses perched on my nose, I walk over to where The Other Women and their entourage are huddled together.

Jess is the first one to spot me. Her face lights up instantly.

“Question,” I say as I approach. “Who wants to hang out with Isabel Adler when we’re in New York?”

Daphne shrieks. “I do!” Her eyes grow wide. “I have to call my mom.”

Cleo finds my gaze. Something passes between us. For an instant, I allow myself to imagine what this would be like if we were together and people knew about it. It’s a foolish thought because Cleo and I have only slept together once and there’s no point in thinking it will go much further than fooling around on the tour, but still. Because all I want to do is fold an arm around her shoulder and pull her close, inhale some of her scent, remember some more of last night’s magic.

“I’m nervous already,” Cleo says. “Have you spoken to her? Do you know how she feels about you and I singing your duet?”

“Don’t worry.” All I can do is send Cleo my biggest smile. “You have nothing to be nervous about.” I look into her clear blue eyes.

“But still,” Cleo says. “She’s an icon and I...”

“You’re Cleo Palmer. You’re the future of music,” Tim says. “Isabel is… I won’t say the past. I like the music she’s making now, but you can’t compare it to what we do. It’s not the same.”

“How do you figure?” I’m both needling him and curious about what he has to say about this subject.

“Well.” Tim turns to me. “Tell me honestly. If you’d gotten the request to record a duet with Isabel fifteen years ago, when both of you were at the absolute top of your game…”

Ouch. Way to kill my vibe, Tim.

Cleo elbows Tim in the biceps.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense. You know I don’t, Lana.” I admire how Tim is so unperturbed by so many things that don’t really matter. I figure he’s been through a thing or two in his young life. “What I mean is that you were the singer of this ultra-cool rock band and Isabel Adler was this—how to put it.”

“Amazing singer with the biggest set of pipes that’s ever graced our ears,” Daphne chimes in.

“I’m not saying Isabel Adler isn’t an amazingly skilled singer and performer, but she always relied on sentiment and drama so much.”

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